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It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel. “Ye Gods!” she said at last. We shall never have an heir, you and I! My family is crumbling; all of my brothers are dead. Both arm-chairs had been moved a little so as to face each other on either side of the fender, and in the circular glow of the green-shaded lamp there lay, conspicuously waiting, a thick bundle of blue and white papers tied with pink tape. He declined supper, but took wine. “Of course you don’t. The unequal battle went on. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. “Are you feeling okay?” “Just fine.
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